Without You
by Amber Come Midnight
Summary: Reichenbach Fall- Kid!lock One-Shot style! Slight Johnlock ship. Blanket for shock not needed, for it isn't too terribly dark. Rated T for drunk moments, suicides, and murder involving nine-and-a-half year old children.


It was nice taking leave from the busy city of London to visit the large estate not too terribly far from the city. The boy disliked his family greatly, and the only person he considered tolerating was his snobbish older brother. He didn't normally like leaving London, but he only came along because of his newfound acquaintance from the last time he visited. The other boy was the nearly the same age as he; barely nine years. The boy had light blonde hair cut in a military fashion, dark grey-blue eyes, and often wore jumpers and khakis. The boy's name was John, and he was the closest thing the boy'd ever had to a friend. Though, of course, he never actually noticed.

* * *

John saw the small, black vehicle pull up to the large estate just down the hill. He sprinted to go and meet his new friend, passing the old abandoned well between the families' squares of land. John saw the boy lightly step out of the car that had pulled into the estate's grand 'U' shaped drive. He saw his friend's mess of dark silky brown curls upon his slender face with high cheek bones. His friend wore a white open neck shirt, dark jeans, dress shoes, navy scarf, and his famous long black trench coat that billowed gracefully at his heels. He didn't smile as he approached John, his long strides making John feel like a lesser person of importance.  
"On time as usual, John." His baritone voice was velvety and almost sounded caring. His eyes darted around John's figure. /Hands by side, clenching and unclenching. Worried? Yes. Healing cut stretches across fingers. Sister becoming drunk once more because of... Eyes are glassy, showing sadness. Father redeployed. That's why sister is drunk. John tries to stop her drunk rages, but obviously can't, hence the knife mark across fingers. Despite glassiness, eyes show spark of excitement. He wants to show me something. Jumper slightly dirty and wrinkled. Holes not stitched up. Mother died recently from illness. Right knee bent more than left. Limping? Shoes scuffled at toes, but otherwise shiny. Obviously tried to be presentable./  
"How have you been making it by?"  
"W-What do you mean?" John inquired, paling.  
"Your sister's constantly drunk, your mother died recently, and your father is deployed. I think you knew what I meant."  
John bit his trembling lip, his eyes fogging and tearing up.  
"But that's not important." The boy said quickly, seeing John beginning to sniffle. "What is it you want to show me?"  
John turned, and the boy followed, easily catching up with John's short strides. The boy felt a slight pang in his heart. /John's head is bowed as he walks. Though he isn't walking. It's more of a trudge. Did I do something wrong?/  
They stopped at the old abandoned well, and the boy inspected it. His already pale face was drained of what little colour it had sustained.  
"You figured it out yet?" A voice drawled.  
Both John and the boy turned to see who they both feared. Jim. Jim had black hair that was slightly gelled back, and wore a dark open neck shirt, dark jeans, and black dress shoes. His eyes were rancorous, and he grinned wickedly at the two. Both John and the boy knew of Jim from the last time they met. Jim went to the same private school, John found out, where Jim was known as a psychopath.  
"I knew you wouldn't give up." Sneered the boy, and glared at Jim.  
Someone grabbed John from behind, pinning him on the ground helplessly. A revolver was placed at his temple, and the boy turned to see John down on the ground struggling. He didn't rush to his side to aid his acquaintance.  
"You must die, or your friend will."  
The boy pulled a smirk before sneering in reply to Jim, "I don't have friends."  
He saw John's eyes dim with sadness, and stopped struggling. He glanced up at the boy, his heart sinking. He thought someone had actually come to accept him. He should've known better becoming so loyal so quickly. The boy felt a pang in his heart once more.  
"I don't have friends." He repeated, before turning back to Jim once more. "Just one."  
The boy stood on the lip of the well and looked down. It seemed to be about a four-story drop, but he knew he had to accept this. Otherwise, John would die. Jim turned to him, also on the lip of the well.  
"Richard Brook. Everyone else dismissed it, but you knew what was meant by it."  
"Of course. You take the name and translate it into German, you get Reichenbach Fall."  
"And you know the significance of that?"  
"Of course. Simple, really."  
John listened to the taunting of the nine and a half year olds. John's body was aching from the weight of the larger boy pinning him down to the ground. He glanced up at his friend, who was looking back at him sadly.  
"Goodbye, John."  
His friend was shoved by Jim into the deep well, and he grabbed the collar of Jim's shirt. They both disappeared.  
"SHERLOCK!" Yelled John, and he threw the boy on top of him off. He then ran to the edge of the well as he heard a thud echo up the well.  
His heart felt like it had been stabbed, followed by electrocuted. He had lost his only friend, who had just saved him. He rested his head on the lip of the old well that was no longer abandoned, for three were using it at the moment. Two used it as their death bed and the third for mourning.

* * *

John only moved from his spot when night had overcome the land and a whipping wind had chilled the poor boy to the bone. He stiffly made his way back to his home. His sister was face down on the dinning room table, a few shattered liquor bottles were haphazardly strewn about the kitchen and dinning room. John searched the mahogany cupboards in the kitchen for an unopened bottle of liquor, which was not too terribly hard to find. He opened the top, before taking a sip of the liquid. It burned his throat, made his eyes water, and made his head fuzzy. He was going to take another sip to drown out the sorrows upon his shoulders, before there was a sharp knock at the door.  
"Go away!" He growled loudly.  
The door creaked open anyway, letting the cold in. It slammed shut, and none other than Sherlock strided into the kitchen.  
"You're drinking." He stated, but John didn't reply. He just took another sip of the liquor.  
"Why...Sherlock?" John rubbed his temples before taking yet another swig from the bottle. He glanced at his very real seeming hallucination of Sherlock sadly.  
"I-I'm sorry Sh-Sher..." His babbling trailed off as he took another deep gulp from the bottle.  
"Stop it, John." Sherlock snatched the bottle from the drunk John, and kneeled down to eye-level next to his sitting friend. "Don't end up like your sister."  
Sherlock gazed coldly into John's clouded eyes. He knew John would think he was a hallucination. John did, still think the Sherlock before him was, in fact one.  
"-horrible friend. I-I-" John's babbling ceased when Sherlock softly touched his hands lightly.  
"John." He started seriously, and John's eyes tried to focus in on his face. "Please. Listen to me. I'm not a figment of your narrow-minded imagination. I need help. Where can I hide within this house?"  
John's face slowly spread into a wide grin, and Sherlock looked at him curiously, yet nevertheless waiting for an answer.  
"Sherlock. Asking for help?" John cackled, and Sherlock backed away slowly. "Sherlock? Help? 'I'm Sherlock Holmes and I work alone because no one can compete with my massive intellect'."  
John shakily rose from the chair in which he was seated, still grinning creepily. He inched closer towards Sherlock, before shaking his head quickly, loosing the smile.  
"John?" Sherlock asked, as a shot rang out, and John hit the floor with a thud.  
Sherlock turned to see the boy from earlier who had pinned down John with a gun in hand now aimed at him.  
"Jim told me you weren't easily killed. He overlooked your weak spot."  
He pointed the gun at the floor where John's body lay, blood quickly pooling around his head, matting his light blonde hair. The blood spread to his jumper, staining it's already dirty surface. Sherlock didn't reply as his windpipe was blocked by a sharp lump, refraining him from speaking. His vision was foggy and his eyes began to sting. The boy pointed his revolver at Sherlock who bowed his head, defeated. He'd rather be with John than away from London with a horrid family without a friend by his side.

* * *

**_Author's Note: Hello all! Finished this on the 29th, but was travelling, watching new Doctor Who Christmas special (Of which I was not a particular fan, regeneration didnt make me cry like I did with Tennant), and trying to live stream season three of Sherlock (without much luck. I missed it because I was too busy with the Doctor Who special). I have also been busy on Tumblr and Instagram, floodig the sites with #SherlockLives with the other Sherlockians (or Holmsies). So, those are my excuses for not posting sooner! Hope you enjoyed! :D_**


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